


One of The Lucky Ones

by Fatebegins



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, Fluff and Angst, Harlequin, Kid Fic, M/M, Mpreg, Period-Typical Racism, Rancher Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-24 01:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13203282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fatebegins/pseuds/Fatebegins
Summary: Desperate to save face, John, an English nobleman with money troubles, sells his son to the highest bidder, sending him West to a rich rancher (Derek) seeking a male bride."If you ever feel loved or needed, remember that you're one of the lucky ones."- The Perfect Ending, Straylight Run





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this story is unfinished and is uploaded to this archive so i won't lose it as my computer is acting cray-cray. It's WIP, so feel free to skip it if you like. I do plan on finishing it eventually.
> 
> UPDATE: This story was born out of a desire to see Derek in some chaps and spurs, working the land. lol.
> 
> UPDATE 2: Also, " Sarah, Plain and Tall"

  

Derek doesn’t know what to expect when he makes the long ride into town.  The weather sure as shit ain’t helping his nerves either. It’s pouring; rain coming down in sheets to muddy the dirt road and send sludge splashing over his tall leather boots. 

 

He gets mired in mud twice before he hits the main road. 

 

After stabling Ares and Blondie down at _Murrays_ and rubbing them down, Derek ducks into _Brown’s_ Saloon.  He hangs his wet hat, grabs a seat at the paneled oak bar and waits for the barkeep to look his way. 

 

Derek stomps his icy boots on the brass foot rail encircling the bar, trying to warm up. 

 

There’s a spirited game of Three-Card-Monte going, mostly miners looking to stay out of the rain.  Derek recognizes a few of the men, lifts a hand in greeting but no one comes over to say hello; too absorbed in gambling.

 

Right in the thick of it is Mira, wearing one of her infamous scarlet gowns, bodice cut low the way the men like. She’s perched on the back of old Wilson’s chair, watching him as he Her hair is swept high, blonde strands curling over her bosom right where an emerald necklace glitters. She always says a scarlet woman may as well dress the part.

 

It isn’t long before Mira catches sight of him. The instant she does, she hops off the arm of the chair and saunters over, hips swaying deliberately with every step. She scoots up unto the stool next to him, crossing her legs and Derek gets an eyeful of tantalizing white lace garters and smooth thighs when her dress parts.

 

“Well, well.” Mira smiles saucily, all teeth. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

 

Derek grins right back up at her, pushing wet hair out of his eyes. “Dragged in is right.”

 

“Today the big day, honey?”

 

“Looks like.”

 

“The coach is expected any minute.” She bends down close, as if they’re sharing a secret. Derek can smell the lilies of her perfume.  “So, I’m guessin’ this is farewell, cowboy.”

 

“Married don’t mean dead.”

 

“Oh, stop.” She gives him a knowing look. “You’re not the kind to step out on your mister.”

 

There’s no sense in arguing with that.

 

Although Derek’s visited with Mira in the past-- she’s a beautiful and charming girl--when Hunter was alive, he never so much as looked at anyone else. Frankly, he’s excited to have that again; a companion; a partner. 

 

He’s not looking for love, he’s already had it, no need to be greedy, and the bitter taste of losing his husband is enough to put him off it for good. His kids need a caregiver.  And Derek wouldn’t mind having someone to warm his bed during the cold Montana winter. Doesn’t really matter who. He’s not picky or hung up on the details.

                                        

Mira clicks her tongue before easing him out of his coat and hanging it by the fire to drip dry. “I’ll have Boyd bring you the usual.”

 

Two whiskies later and Derek is getting antsy, foot bouncing.  He’s about to check the window for the fifth time when he hears the telltale clang of iron and horses.

 

“Smile.” Mira tells him with a firm slap to the backside. “Don’t want to scare the poor boy to death on sight.”

 

“Shut it.” Derek retorts but he smiles best as he can manage all the same, as the carriage unloads and its few passengers begin to filter in through the double doors

 

He spots John first.  The years haven’t been too kind to his father’s old friend. He looks aged, face lined and hair thinning at the temples where he’s nearly all gray. Derek figures having a wild son and a failing business hasn’t helped him get his beauty sleep.  If what he’s said about the boy is true, old man Stilinski must have been through many sleepless nights when he wasn’t teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

 

Derek strides forwards and clasps his hand in handshake. “Welcome to the wet side of hell, my friend.”

 

John grimaces. “You certainly got the wet part right. Don’t know how you bear it.”

 

“Willow’s Bend in the spring, heaven on earth.” Derek automatically defends. He loves his town, his ranch, it’s in his blood, built by his great granddaddy, grandpa and Dad before him. He takes a lot of pride in knowing the Hale’s shaped desolate land into a prosperous cattle ranch. One day Jace will take the helm, like he did; it’s a matter of pride.

 

John gestures the huddled figure behind him forward. “Stiles, greet your husband.”

 

Huh. 

 

So, that’s him. Derek had nearly forgotten. Funny thing how easy it is to forget you’re married when all you did was sign on the dotted line two months ago.

 

“Hello, Mr. Hale.” The words are quick and spoken with a grim determination that hints at panic. “Pleasure to meet you.”

 

“No need to be so formal.” Derek replies, moving forward to take his hand. Stiles jumps some, whiskey colored eyes widening a fraction, but doesn’t pull away. He’s got big hands, soft and un-calloused. A gentleman’s hands. “You’re actually Mr. Hale now, too.”

 

The boy blushes, then uncertainly tugs his hand away. Derek lets him go, watching him thoughtfully. From what he’s been told, Stiles is just past seventeen, all lean, coltish lines and downcast eyes. With his wet hair matted to his head, he looks like the half-drowned puppy Rowan brought in from the barn last week.

 

John looks between the two of them apprehensively as the silence grows. “Everything alright?” Old man is probably afraid Derek will change his mind, but Derek won’t. Not like he can. “Are you going to head back to the ranch or stay in town for the night?”

 

Derek hadn’t thought about how much time the Stilinskis might need to say goodbye. He looks at Stiles but the boy doesn’t look up from his shoes.  “I was going to head on back tonight if the rain let up.  Cora’s with the hellions and if I’m not back soon she’ll likely hang herself.”

 

“Then … I suppose this is goodbye.” John says to Stiles, tone detached but his eyes are wet. “I expect you’ll behave for your husband, you’ve caused quite enough trouble.”

 

Another blush darkens across Stiles’ cheek, and his eyes fall closed as he nods.

 

The exchange leaves Derek uncomfortable and he’s grateful he won’t have to make pleasantries.

 

As soon as Stiles’ trunks --and hell fire how any of the damned things were there? -- are unloaded on the saloon porch, Derek heads down to _Murrays_ and pays two shop boys to stack them in the back of his wagon. He’ll have to return for the rest later on. Stiles looks like he wants to disagree but in the end just nods.

 

When Derek gets back, Stiles is standing right where he left him, arms tight around his middle and mouth set in a thin line. He’s attracting attention. Folks around here don’t see too many strangers, and he’s attractive enough to turn more than a few heads. Mira for her part is glaring at him from her seat at the bar. She can be a jealous one.

 

“Where’s John?”

 

Stiles’ lip curls into a slight sneer and it’s the first hint of emotion Derek’s witnessed from him.  “Guess he found company and a room for the night.”

 

Derek snickers, passing a hand over his damp hair. “Then we best head on out. I know…in your condition--”

 

“I’m fine to travel.” Stiles says shortly. “Obviously.”

 

** ___________ **

 

Typically, the ranch is about two hours out from town but with the weather being what it is, it takes more than twice that.  Thankfully, the rain slows eventually to a drizzle. Derek tries and does fill the silence with words.  They stop about midway, near Leghorns creek, and Derek unpacks cold beef sandwiches for them to eat. Stiles looks green but takes his share and picks at it just the same. Derek tells Stiles about Jace, Rowan and Lily, their dogs and the new barn kittens. However, Stiles, much like his letters, is subdued and perfunctory.

 

Derek’s not sure if he’s shy or indifferent. He’d been much the same way before he met Hunter.

 

“My kids ain’t the most mannered bunch but they’re good children, so I’ll remind you to treat them nice.”

 

“Why would I treat them any differently?”

 

Derek shifts in his seat defensively, the old anger welling up in him. “On account of what they are.”

 

“It … it doesn’t matter to me.”

 

“When Hunter was alive, we had trouble.” Derek keeps his eyes trained on the back of Ares head. “A white man and a Chippewa-Cree married... damn near gave old timers a heart attack when Pastor Dale made it official.”

 

“Do they resemble him then?”

 

“Enough.”

 

Stiles swallows hard. “I’d never…”

 

“See that you don’t.”

 

They reach the outskirts of the ranch just before sunset, and Derek grins proudly when Stiles’ eyes widen at the seemingly never-ending expanse of hills and plains.  The cattle are out in the fields, far as the visibility allows.

 

His foreman, Jackson, meets them halfway, bringing fresh mounts and oilskins to shield them from the elements. After quick introductions, Derek attempts to help Stiles up on his horse, only to be surprised when Stiles admits he doesn’t know how to ride. Anxious to get home, Derek helps Stiles astride Blaise best he can and then doubles up behind him.

 

The boy is tense, back a stiff line as Derek eases her into a trot.

 

When Blaise works up to a gallop, likely anxious to get to the warm barn, Stiles jumps, nearly unseating them both in the process.

 

“Easy, now.” Derek places a hand on Stiles’ waist to settle him, applying pressure so Stiles will lean back unto his chest. “Relax, you’re making her nervous.”

 

Stiles remains stiff as a board but he doesn’t make any more erratic movements.

 

They make it to the main house without incident. Derek ushers Stiles inside the quiet house before leading the horses back to the main barn.  It’s dark except for the lantern left burning in the foyer window. The kids are asleep in their beds when Derek looks in on them.

 

When Derek returns, Stiles has taken off his long coat, revealing a skinny frame in black, tailored trousers and dark lawn shirt. He cuts a pleasing figure, Derek can see how he was never short of attention. The dark muslin clings to lean legs and narrow hips. Heat settles low in his belly pleasantly. It’s been too long since Derek’s had anything other then his own hand for company.

 

Derek looks up from his perusal to find Stiles watching him, expression guarded. The boy looks terrified, hair drying in short tufts around his face.

 

“We should get to sleep.” Derek announces gruffly. “Early day tomorrow.”

 

There’s some awkwardness when they get to the bedroom, but Derek’s too tired for any of that. As Stiles’ trunks are still out in the wagon, he grabs an old nightshirt of his and thrusts it in Stiles’ general direction before stripping down to his long johns. He’s asleep before his head even hits the pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

 

“You’re big.” Rowan looks up at Stiles, hazel eyes huge in his pale face. He hasn’t stopped starin’ since Stiles walked in for breakfast. “ _Too_ big, take him back.”

 

Jace doesn’t say a word, just sits at the table guzzling water from a tin cup. Glaring.

 

Lily, his angel, has much better manners but still falls short. She takes her thumb out of her mouth long enough to say: “I like your ears, mister.”

 

Derek groans and Cora laughs loudly while Stiles looks like a fish out of water. He must’ve gotten into his trunks because he’s dressed in a pale blue collared shirt, tucked into smart, brown trousers. He’s wearing hose, shiny enough to make Derek wince. He needs to teach his new husband what dress is appropriate for a ranch. The man sticks out like a sore thumb.

 

“Mind your damn manners.” Derek pushes Rowan forward, ignoring the boy’s grousing. “Say hello, good and proper.”

 

“Good Morning.” Rowan grumbles, scratching the back of his dark head.  Derek nudges him once more. “Ugh. Thanks for coming.”

 

Lily follows suit shyly, nearly falling on her bottom when she attempts a curtsy. “Hiya.”

 

Jace snickers.

 

No one seems inclined to say much more.

 

“That overgrown weed is my oldest, Jace, eleven. Rowan is eight.” Derek says in their stead, corralling his small band. “And this,” He tickles her chin so she giggles. “Is little miss Lily, age three.”

 

The smile Stiles gives them is weak. Derek can tell that he’s trying not to appear as overwhelmed as he probably feels.

 

Stiles speaks to Rowan first.  “I promise I’m done growing.”

 

Rowan looks at him skeptically.

 

Derek watches Stiles’ face, looking for any of that derision that crosses most stranger’s faces when they see the darker skin of his children. But there’s only curiosity and apprehension there.

 

As they’re sitting down to their breakfast, Derek tells the table at large. “This is my husband, the one I told you about. Stiles is going to need you to be on your best behavior.”

 

Jace frowns, plopping his spoon into his porridge noisily. “ _All_ the time?”

 

Derek grins over his tin cup of coffee. “You’re nearing manhood, deal with it.”

 

“What kind of name is Stiles?” Rowan grumbles.

 

“It’s _his_ name.” Derek replies sternly.

 

“It’s a stupid name.”

 

“Rowan!”

 

“You’ll get used to it.” Cora assures Stiles who still looks dazed, she pats his hand before pouring him a cup of tea. “As you can see they’re rough around the edges, and need a softer touch. Which I’m guessing you may be bringing to the table? I ‘m told you’re from the fancy East, even went to finishing school?”

 

Stiles nods. “Graduated in the spring.”

 

Not one to be left out, Lily chirps through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “You talk funny.”

 

“ _Michante_.” Derek chides softly, using the name Hunter used to call her by. “That’s not nice.”

 

“I’m only little, Daddy!” She yells in response. She seems to yell everything nowadays. “I’m not a big girl like Rowan.”

 

“I’m a _boy_!”

 

 

This sets the siblings bickering back and forth.

 

Stiles is watching the chaos, hand frozen around his mug.

 

Derek realizes that his kids can be a bit much but he doesn’t attempt to reign them because Jace is right, he can’t ask them to be on their best behavior all the time.  As unconventional as their little arrangement is, they’re going to be a family. Stiles has got to learn that this marriage comes with his kids, the same way Derek is accepting his child, he needs to do the same.

 

“Stiles?”  Cora begins tentatively, “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast. Do you want biscuits or bacon--?”

 

The blush intensifies. “Tea and toast are sufficient.”

 

Knowing how much pride his sister takes in her cooking, Derek tries to smooth over any hurt feelings. It’s likely that Stiles is nauseas, he looks a bit green around the gills.  “His stomach ain’t so great on account--”

 

“On second thought,” Stiles interjects with a forced smile. “I’d love some eggs.”

 

** ___________ **

****

What the hell has his father gotten him into?

****

Stiles is dazed. He can’t quite figure out what to make of his current situation. It’s overwhelming. And fast. Everything has happened so damn quickly. One moment he’d been home, surrounded by his beloved books and friends, and the next his father was packing him up and shooing him away.

 

On the stage coach, the buildings and clusters of homes of the city had melted away into forest and then into plains. Montana looks like nothing he’s ever seen or known. It’s something out of dime store novels, teeming with tales of outlaws and raids.

 

The ranch is another world. There’s so much space, open sky and livestock; cows, chickens, goat, horses and bulls.  There are no storied buildings or public gathering places. Just fields. As far as he can see.

 

It’s too different from home. 

 

And Derek. His husband is big and broad, gruff in his mannerisms but so gentle with his children. He’s attractive, that much is obvious. When Stiles first laid eyes on him, angular features highlighted beneath the salon lights, shapely lips curved into a smile with that painted woman, he’d felt a jolt of _something_.

 

Sleep had been elusive that night. Stiles had never slept with a man before in his life. Not even Jordan. Derek took up most of the bed and gave off heat like a furnace. Stiles had been afraid to move a muscle. He’d fallen asleep near dawn and had awoken to an empty bed and stiff muscles.

 

No one seems to want to explain anything to him at breakfast, and his new husband leaves as soon as he can shove three fried eggs between a roll and kiss his kids goodbye.

 

After breakfast, Stiles is left alone in the house with the three children and the woman. It’s with some relief he learns that Cora is Derek’s little sister and not a live-in lover as he had previously assumed.  His father had warned him not to expect faithfulness. Of course, that was to be expected.  Anyone who would marry a man pregnant with another man’s child wasn’t looking for a normal marriage.

 

Silently, Stiles collects the empty plates at the table, unsure of what to do with them. Despite the substantial size of the ranch, he hasn’t spotted any help to see to the domestic tasks.

 

“Should I…” Stiles trails off at a loss. “Is the staff not in today?”

 

“Staff?” Cora stares at him blankly. “What staff? Oh! You mean servants?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“There aren’t any.” She laughs and the boy does as well. They seem to find his question funny.  Cora hushes the boy soon enough though, and tells him to go get himself and his sister washed up. “We do the cooking and the cleaning around here.  On Sundays Millie and Allison come by for the washing but that’s all the help we get. Isaac used to do most of the cooking for the men but he’s laid up at home, his time coming and all.”

 

“Isaac?”

 

“Mm, Jackson’s husband.” Cora takes his dishes and drops them in a deep, metal tub along with the pots and pans. She goes to the stove where a large pot of water has been left boiling and carefully pours it over the soiled dishes and flatware accumulated at the bottom of the metal sink. “I’ll teach you, for the time being. Just pay attention.”

 

The longer Stiles does, the more the knot in his stomach grows. Cora doesn’t stop talking as she scrubs. It’s no wonder her hands are rough and nails shorn close.

 

He has no idea how westerners live, much less how to be the husband of a rancher. He dries the dishes when Cora hands them to him expectantly, and nearly drops one when Jace barks out he’s doing it wrong.

 

“What’s next?” Stiles asks when Cora places the clean and dry dishes into a sturdy curio cabinet.

 

“We get the littlun’s started on their lessons, wipe down what needs dusting and then start on lunch. I’ll wake you tomorrow to do the morning chores.” She winks. “I figured you and Derek being newlyweds would prefer to sleep in this morning.”

 

And that? Stiles is going to ignore.

 

The children don’t take after Derek much.  Even before Derek confronted him on the ride, Stiles’ father had spoken about Derek’s first husband being Indian. Truthfully, it was shocking. It’s something that isn’t done, mixed race marriages but love is love, and Stiles can see how much Derek loved his husband in the remnants of him. The beautiful glass pieces adorning the cabinets and window ledges are Hunter’s Cora explains, as well as the thick, colorful hand-woven rugs in the sitting room. They’re the first thing she cleans daily.

 

Jace proves to be quite hostile towards Stiles, tall for eleven with dark hair and features but his father’s light eyes. He glares at Stiles even when he’s caught looking, gaze defiant and unwavering. Rowan wavers between curiosity and copying his brothers glare. The little girl, Lily, is shy without her older brothers present and very inquisitive. She resembles the little porcelain dolls his mother collected with her dark, glossy hair and rosebud mouth. She must be the spitting image of her birth father.

 

Presently, while Jace is stabbing at his lesson book with graphite, she’s watching Stiles from the doorway of the bedroom, dark almond eyes wide as he unpacks the first of his trunks. Derek has set aside a wardrobe for his use; it’s old but sturdy, and more importantly, spacious. He’s brushed out the cobwebs and nearly had a heart attack at the small kitten who was sleep in it.

 

Lily crows in delight, calling the bedraggled kitten Luna and cradling it to her chest.

 

“Stylio?”

 

Stiles’ mouth twitches into a smile. “Stiles.”

 

“Stylio.” Lily repeats dutifully, and incorrectly once more.  “What’s that?”

 

Lily wanders closer, lifting his glove off the floor. Her hair is sectioned in two long braids, secured with little white bows at the end. Stiles supposes he must learn to plait her hair as well.

 

“A glove.” Stiles replies. He’s always been unsure around children and he’s afraid of scaring her.  “For riding.”

 

“Riding what?”

 

“A horse.”

 

That makes her giggle, “You don’t need gloves for that! You just get on, Stylio!”

 

It’s not as if Stiles would know, so he laughs along with her, feeling some of the tightness in his chest ease. He’s been on edge since Jordan disappeared. His father is so angry with him, and he has so much on his mind without adding a husband into it.

 

Now, he has an entire ready-made family; something he’s not sure he wants.

 

“Stiles!”

 

Cora yells from downstairs and Stiles cringes; a lady shouldn’t raise her voice. If Lydia were here she’d have a fit at the impropriety of it all.  When it becomes apparent that she won’t stop yelling until he responds, Stiles stops what he is doing, collects the girl and goes down stairs.

 

“Yes?”

 

“We need to start rolling out the dough, I’ve got a base going for the brown gravy.”

 

The aroma from the pot smells nice, but Stiles feels nauseous when he watches her stir the thick, brown gravy.

 

“Dough?”

 

“Did they not teach you that at your finishing school?”

 

Heat creeps up his neck, and Stiles is reminded of how useless he is here. “No, I’m sorry, they didn’t. Our education was geared towards managing a household and hosting.”

 

“I was only jesting.” Cora exclaims. “I know you’re not accustomed to any of this.”

 

Stiles doesn’t respond but he does his best to mime her movements, doing what she does and mentally cataloguing how much of what product she uses. In fifteen minutes Stiles’ working on kneading a massive amount of dough, wrists aching and Cora has moved on to butchering chicken for frying. Several actual whole chickens.  Blood and all. She blanches the birds outside, hanging them by their feet and dunking them into steaming water. Then Cora makes quick works of the plucking, demanding that he collect the feathers for the pillows and mattress.

 

The smell is pungent and disgusting.

 

If his classmates could see him now.

 

Once the birds have been bled and butchered, Stiles walks back inside with Cora, sufficiently traumatized as she seasons the sections.

 

Lily plays at their feet, tripping over her pink skirts and humming in excitement when she learns that they’re having fried chicken. “Unca Peter is gonna be happy.”

 

“That’s because he’s a glutton.”

 

“Peter?”

 

“My uncle.” Cora supplies.

 

“Is this a family lunch then?”

 

“We take lunch and dinner together. Didn’t you know? We’ve got twenty-three working men on this ranch, each like family.”

 

Stiles nods, trying not to feel scandalized at the prospect of taking supper with the hired men. Montana is worlds away from Boston, and Stiles needs to get used to that.  Although, fraternizing with the help is exactly what landed him in this situation to begin with. Perhaps a place that shuns convention is what he needs.

 

 

Around eleven, a man named Matthew comes calling for Cora. He’s tall and handsome, dark hair long over the collar of a wool jacket. He has friendly blue eyes that immediately put Stiles at ease. Thankfully, he takes over much of what Stiles had been attempting to do. Stiles watches as they prepare huge portions of food, marinating beef for stock and mashing potatoes while the fragrant gravy simmers. The dough having rested and risen, Stiles is tasked with rolling out biscuits. He’s not doing it correctly judging by Jace and Rowan’s braying laughter. Eventually, Matthew takes over, adding oil to his hands and demonstrating how to cut out the proper amount.

 

When the biscuits are fresh out of the oven, Rowan drops all pretense of learning and throws his book into a nearby drawer.

 

“Can I do it this time, Aunt Cora?” He runs into the kitchen. “Can I?”

 

“No!” Lily tosses her straw doll to the floor, getting to her little feet. “It’s my turn!”

 

“Y’all are both idiots.” Jace grunts.

 

Cora doesn’t miss a beat as she walks towards the mudroom, plates stacked in hand. “You _both_ do it.”

 

The children run to the front of the house and after a moment, Stiles hears the deep ring of a cowbell.

 

“I’ll grab the flatware, you get the cups?” Matthew doesn’t wait for a response and disappears the same way Cora went.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, Stiles follows them, surprised to see that the mudroom leads out to a large dining hall. The room has a high ceiling, a buffet table lining the left wall. A large oak table takes up most of the space, flanked one either side by long wooden benches. A blue and white checked cloth cover the table and Cora has already set down plates, twelve down each side. Stiles can scarcely believe that this is a common occurrence.

 

Outside he can hear the voice of multiple men, coarse talk and rowdy laughter.

 

Feeling insecure, Stiles inches back towards the door. His trousers and shirt are stained and wrinkled. “I should get changed.”

 

“There’s no need for that.”

 

Stiles’ movements are halted by a broad chest blocking his path. Stiles turns around, sick churning in his stomach returning when he finds Derek there. He’s sweaty, brow covered in light dust and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

 

The older man is looking down at him, amused. “You look fine.”

 

“I really should.” Before anyone can protest further, Stiles side steps around Derek and scurries back to the main house.

 

Once he’s safely in the bedchamber, door closed behind him, Stiles stops and takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. The sheer size of Derek unnerves him, although only slight taller, Derek is muscled where he is thin, shoulders broad, imposing and muscles apparent beneath his shirts. 

 

He could easily over power him.

 

As his husband, Derek can legally do with his bearer as he pleased.

 

Stiles bites his lip at the thought, shivering.

 

There’s a loud knock on the door.

 

“Hurry up!” It’s Jace, and he sounds livid. Stiles is beginning to suspect he doesn’t ever sound any other way.  “Dad says we can’t eat until you come and you’re makin’ everyone wait!”

 

“I’ll be down in a moment. Please tell your father to start without me.”

 

With no other choice, Stiles hurriedly changes into more formal wear, choosing a dark green silk shirt and black pleated trousers.  He washes his face and hands, using a cracked basin near the window.

 

When he returns to the dining hall, the room is filled with men. No one is eating, plates empty in front of them. It seems that Derek had ignored his earlier instructions to begin in his absence. Most of the men are sullen but some smile at him welcomingly.

 

“And here he is.” Derek is seated at the head of the table, and he stands, holding a hand out to Stiles. “Stiles, these are the men.”

 

Stiles takes the empty seat and that seems to be the signal to eat. Their fast broken, the men begin to introduce themselves. Stiles recognizes the burly man with a salt and pepper beard as Morgan. He’d been to Boston once or twice. Try as he might, he can’t remember all their names, there’s just too many of them, but he smiles and nods when they each speak. Soon they forget about him, lapsing into ranch talk that Stiles doesn’t comprehend.

 

“How are you settling in?”

 

“Uh…I’m fine.” Stiles looks down at his plate. “Cora is showing me what’s expected.”

 

“If you need any help, just holler.”

 

“Thank you.” Stiles bites into a warm biscuit, surprised at the buttery, flakey pleasant taste. His faulty stomach doesn’t churn for once. He takes another bite and before he knows it he’s reaching for another.

 

“Good, ain’t it?

 

Stiles goes red when he realizes Derek has been watching him eat. His green eyes are fixed at his lips and Stiles can’t stop himself from licking them nervously.

 

“Try it with some jam and honey.” Derek winks conspiratorially. “Even better.”

 

When lunch is over the men return to the fields, Derek going with them. Before he leaves, some of them men hoot and holler about newlyweds and proper goodbyes. Stiles has one second to panic before Derek plants a noisy kiss to his lips, sending the men into laughter. It’s exaggerated, and clearly meant for fun, but Stiles remains frozen. His new husband is overwhelming. Stiles is as intimidated as much as he’s intrigued. And from the way Derek’s eyes followed him, Stiles’ sure that Derek will claim what’s his tonight.

 

Someone makes a comment about a cold fish, and Derek knocks a young, blonde cattle hand – Jimmy or John?-- upside the head before leaving.

 

****

** ­­­­­­­___________ **

 

Stiles can hear the children being put to bed down the hall and tries not to panic. Not knowing what else to do with himself, he strips down to his thin undergarments and sits down at the foot of the bed, the heat from the fire flushing his cheeks.

 

With every step he hears, Stiles’ pulse races, blood rushing in his ears. Jordan fills his mind, leaves his palms sweating and heart racing.

 

“Didn’t expect you to be up.”

 

“I was waiting for you.”

 

Derek shucks off his shirt and pants easily, looking at Stiles. “Why?”

 

“Because we’re married.”

 

Derek grins, tossing the clothing over a chair, unashamed of his nakedness. “Reckon we are.”

 

Stiles wets his lips, trying to look anywhere but at Derek. He’s big everywhere, chest tapering off into ridged abdominal muscles and lean hips and muscled thighs.

 

“And married people…” Stiles trails off, annoyed to see the amusement in Derek’s face. Despite the fear, even though he certainly doesn’t wish it, he steels his voice and says: “We need to consummate this marriage.”

 

A dark brow shoots up. “Do we?”

 

Stiles nods. “Yes.”

 

“I won’t get an annulment.” Derek says after a moment. “If that’s what you’re worried about. I keep my word.”

 

It’s precisely what Stiles was worried about. “That’s not it.”

 

“Then what is it?” Derek challenges. “You find me attractive?” He leans down until his eyes are level with Stiles and Stiles can feel the damp heat of his breath across his lips. “You want me?”

 

It’s impossible to ignore the shadow of Derek’s cock nestled against his thick thighs, the earthy musk of his scent and big hands.

 

“Must you be naked for this conversation?”

 

“I’d think I’d have to be naked to consummate.”

 

Stiles glares up at him, cheeks hot. “You’re laughing at me.”

 

“I don’t have any illusions of our marriage, Stiles.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“I know that you married me because you’re pregnant and your man ran off. You know I married you because your father needed the money, and my kids need looking after.”

 

“So…this will be a marriage in name only, then?”

 

“No.” Derek shakes his head, voice rough, like silk over sandpaper. It sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine. “Not in name only. When you’re ready, when your mind is no longer occupied by _him_ , I will make you mine.”

 

Stiles can only stare, dry mouthed, as images of Derek covering him with his considerable bulk flood his mind. He has no doubt Derek means those words, that the promise of pleasure real. For a moment, he allows himself to entertain the thought, Derek taking him in his bed, spreading his legs and plundering his body.

 

He leans back on his palms, watching Derek’s eyes, dark in the firelight.

 

“Stiles?”

 

Heart hammering in his chest, Stiles responds. “Yes?”

 

Derek grins. “You’re on my side of the bed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, slow burn, You are so cruel.

 

 

The next morning, Stiles quickly discovers why Jace ‘helpfully’ directs him to the hen house to gather eggs. When Stiles emerges, bedraggled and sporting a few nasty peck wounds on the back of his hands, Jace is leaning against the side of the barn, doubled over in laughter.

 

Stiles could cheerfully wring his neck. 

 

“I’ll do it.” Jace grabs the woefully empty basket and marches right back into the hen house. He’s also wearing thick black gloves.  The chickens squawk and kick up a fuss but when Jace walks out, the basket is teetering on overflowing. “See? It’s not even _hard_.”

 

Stiles grits his teeth and reminds himself that he must make a go of it. The boy is just that, a boy. He’s lashing out for whatever reason, or maybe he’s just having some fun at Stiles expense. Either way, Stiles can ill afford to rock the boat.

 

When Stiles gets back into the house, Cora clucks over his hands and swats Jace on the back of the head before she cleans the small wounds and binds his hand with white strips torn right from her petticoat.

 

“Jace, upstairs now, until your Dad gets back for lunch.”

 

Jace glowers, dropping the basket on the table. “That’s not fair! I _did_ my chores.”

 

“Stiles could’ve been seriously hurt, what if old Susan had plucked his eye?!”

 

The thought makes his stomach flip. 

 

Good Lord.

 

“It was a prank!”

 

“We’ll see if your father finds it funny.”

 

“No!” Jace exclaims. By the way he’s behaving, you would think the boy was the victim. “He won’t take me down to the creek to go swimming if you tell him. Please Aunt Cora, please don’t.”

 

“It was harmless.” Stiles offers, and this seems to anger Jace more. “There’s no reason to worry Derek with it.”

 

“I don’t need you defending me.” Jace stomps up the stairs.

 

“He’ll settle.” Cora shakes her head when he goes. “He just needs to get used to you.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“It’s not.” Cora looks at his hands once more with a sigh. “Well, you won’t be much help for lunch today, will you?”

 

But of course, even with Cora remaining tight lipped, Derek notices Stiles’ hands at lunch and Jace is tasked with mucking out three stalls in the afternoon. The boy goes silently, sending hateful glares in Stiles’ direction as the men watch.

 

Jace comes running back inside not five minutes later, anger forgotten. “Dad! Snow is foaling!”

 

For some reason that escapes Stiles, this announcement elates the ranch hands, and Derek pushes back from the table, Jackson following.

 

 

-

 

Derek doesn’t come to bed. From the bedroom window, Stiles can see the dim light of the barn. Derek is sleeping there tonight, staying with Snow, trying to keep her calm, while the veterinarian, Dr. Deaton, guides her through what’s proving to be a difficult birth.

 

Stiles is nearly asleep when he’s shaken awake by small hands. Rowan is standing at the foot of the bed, boots on his feet even in his night robe.

 

“What are you doing awake?”

 

“Snow’s had her baby! I wanna go see.”

 

Stiles rubs his eyes, unsure of what the child is saying.

 

“It’s dark out.” Rowan admits lowly. “I don’t like the dark.”

 

“Where’s Jace?” The boys share a room.

 

“He slept outside with, Daddy.” Rowan tugs his foot once more. “Please?”

 

The last thing Stiles wants is to go out in the dark himself, cross the front lawn and go around the house to the barn. It’s pitch black, except for the weak light provided by the moon and stars.

 

Stiles gets out of bed, mentally cursing as he does. Derek’s left his jacket across the chair closest to the fire, an annoying habit. Stiles hastily tugs the overly large coat on before pulling on his own boots.

 

“I’ll hold your hand.” Rowan volunteers benevolently. “Promise.”

 

“I’m sure.” Stiles replies dryly. He strikes a match, lighting the bedside lantern. “Let’s take this in case.”

 

Rowan looks at him in awe, like he’s achieved the greatest magic trick simply because he thought to bring a light.

 

The boy grabs his hand anyway once they clear the field. Stiles is relieved once he spots the red slated wood of the bar.

 

Voices drift in from the doorway.  His use for Stiles expired, Rowan drops his hand and barrels ahead. 

 

Feeling out of place, Stiles steps into the barn. He finds Derek’s sitting in the hay of the last stall, tiny foal’s head in his lap as he rubs her down under Snows vigilant gaze. Jace is curled up on Derek’s other side, fast asleep. Dr. Deaton is taking the foal’s measurements, writing down stats from the sound of it. Stiles knows that Derek sells racing horses at auction for top dollar, it’s with a pang he realizes that come his second birthday, the foal will likely be gone.

 

“What’s his name!” Rowan yells.

 

Derek looks up in surprise, seeing them. “What are you two doing out of bed?”

 

Rowan looks at Stiles like this was his idea.

 

“We couldn’t wait to see the new foal.” Stiles supplies in the wake of the boys silence. “What’s his name?”

 

“Doesn’t have one yet.” Derek replies. “Jace fell asleep.”

 

“Can I name him then?”

 

“I promised your brother, you know that.”

 

“Let’s call him biscuit!”

 

Even Stiles laughs at that.

 

Derek grins and there’s straw in his hair. No man should look that handsome, even all worn out. “I’ll run it by Jace, alright?”

 

Rowan nods, kneeling to tentatively touch the foal’s ears. “He’s so soft.”

 

“Cause he’s brand new.”

 

“I love biscuits.”

 

“You mean Biscuit, Roe.”

 

He yawns. “Him, too.”

 

Stiles stays for a few more minutes, watching them interact with the new creature. Rowan’s right. The foal is beautiful, body black and crown printed with a snowy patch. He’s got long legs, will likely prove to be a good racing horse.

 

“Y’all should head back.” Derek says softly. “It’s late.”

 

Stiles nods, gathering the lantern and motions Rowan forward. “Will you be up soon?”

 

“Won’t be but a minute.”

-

 

Stiles is the first to wake up for once the next morning, and it’s not because he’s feeling chipper. His stomach has him running for the bed pan with seconds to spare as he’s sick all over himself. Stiles heaves, trying to be quiet as cold sweat breaks across his brow. The fire has long burned down to embers and without Derek’s body heat, he finds himself shivering, making the cramps worse.

 

There’s nothing left to vomit, but he continues to dry retch. Try as he might to not disturb Derek, he hears the bedcovers rustle.

 

“Stiles?”

 

Stiles groans pitifully in response, fingers splayed across his abdomen in silent plea for his stomach to settle.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Derek kneels down beside him and embarrassment saps the rest of his strength. He’s dizzy, arms unwilling to bear his weight any longer.

 

“Hey.” Derek croons, catching him as he collapses. “I’ve got you, love.”

 

Stiles’ stomach heaves once more. Derek holds him through it, leaving only to return with a wet rag. It’s then Stiles realizes he’s soiled the front of his garment. He tries to move away then, but Derek won’t have it, soothing him much like he did with the foal.

 

It’s several agonizing moments before the nausea settles, leaving him weak and shamed. Derek slides a pillow beneath his head and drapes his jacket over Stiles’ prone figure.

 

As Stiles watches, Derek stokes the fire back to life and pours a glass of water from the basin. He brings it to Stiles lips, and he takes two small sips before he closes his eyes.

 

“I’m going to get you something for your stomach.”

 

Stiles must drift off because when he next opens his eyes the sun is peaking through the drawn curtains and he’s back in bed, nestled in goose down and warm.

 

Derek is whistling across the room, a large metal tub at his feet. He pours steaming water down into it, laying out soap and a wash rag on the stool.

 

Stiles looks down and his cheeks blaze, he has dried sick on the front of his nightshirt. He looks a right mess. He’s so embarrassed. And to have troubled Derek like this? He sits up, grateful that his stomach has calmed.

 

“Good, you’re awake.” Derek brings him a cup of warm liquid. “Here, drink.”

 

“I should…” Stiles gestures to himself, eyes focused on the bed covers.

 

“Drink.” Derek repeats. “All the rest can wait.”

 

Stiles does obediently, surprised at the peppery taste. “What is this?”

 

“Ginger root. Hunter swore by it when he had an upset stomach with Lily.”

 

Stiles drinks the entire cup quickly. He hasn’t had a proper since his arrival and while the circumstances are horrific, he can’t wait to bathe.

 

“Let me help you.”

 

Stiles jerks away, cheeks hot. “I’m fine, thank you.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes and takes him by the elbow anyway. He stands there and Stile stares expectantly.

 

“What?”

 

“I need a dressing screen.”

 

“I’m your husband.” Derek reminds, amused. “It’s my right.”

 

“I’d rather you give me some measure of privacy—”

 

“You’re covered in vomit and pregnant.” Derek raises a brow. “I think I’ll be able to control myself.”

 

The words are spoken in jest, no doubt meant to put him at ease, but they sting. Derek is right. Stiles is unattractive, a man like Derek wouldn’t look twice at him, especially in condition.

 

Teeth gritted, Stiles removes his night shirt in one motion, tripping over himself to duck into the water, crossing his knees as soon as he’s seated to protect his modesty.

 

“Right.” Derek looks amused when Stiles crosses his arms over his chest as well. “I’ve got some of Cora’s flowery soap for you, thought maybe that’s what you’d be used to.”

 

“I’m a man.” Stiles huffs.

 

“Believe me, I’m aware.” Derek hands him the wash rag. “You need any help reaching your back? Or—”

 

“Derek!”

 

“Would you like me to go—”

 

“Yes, Derek!”

 

The bastard laughs, eyes full of mirth and Stiles finds himself having to hide his own. “I’ll go make you some more of that tea.”

 

_______________

 

 

“Those are stupid.” Jace comments as soon as Stiles steps foot into the kitchen. He’s pointing at Stiles’ hose. “Why do you have them?”

 

The answer to that is twofold: 1) hose is fashionable and proper; 2) silk denotes status and wealth. Lydia would be able to explain it better. Not that it would help. Jace wouldn’t understand any of it. He’s alternated between the same tan breeches and gingham shirts since Stiles arrived.

 

“They’re clothes.” Stiles hears Cora yelling to someone outside. He’d go help her, but he has a dreadful suspicion that she’s butchering some animal again. “Everyone wears them back East.”

 

Jace smirks. “Well, no one round here wears them.”

 

Stiles ignores him. “Where are your brother and sister?”

 

“Dad took them to see Isaac.”

 

“He left you?”

 

“I’ve gotta be the man of the house.” Jace says matter of fact. “Till he gets back.”

 

Jace is about seventy pounds soaking wet, even being as tall as he is, but Stiles knows better then to laugh.

 

“That’s nice, Jace. What are you working on?”

 

“My lessons.” Jace snaps, covering the page with his hand when Stiles tries to peer down at it. He catches a glimpse of fractions, but that’s it. “You’re botherin’ me.”

 

Since Jace is clearly done gracing Stiles with his delightful conversation, Stiles sets about making himself a cup of tea. It’s harder than it looks. The black kettle hangs in the hearth, right above the fire. Stiles has watched Cora wrap a cheese cloth around the handle, tip it forward without removing it from hook.

 

Stiles considers the crackling fire and his general clumsiness, and quickly puts all thoughts of tea from his mind. At home, he’d had servants to see to this sort of task and in school, a hot cup was set in front of him each morning before he even thought to ask.

 

Thankfully, Cora comes inside before he lowers himself to asking Jace for help.

 

“Oh, Derek said you’d be wanting tea.” She has bright streaks of blood staining her wide apron. Stiles is going to be sick. Again. “I’ll get that for you.”

 

This time, when she fixes him a cup, Stiles watches her movements closely, memorizing the way she handles the pot and steps to the right and away so the flames don’t pop on her skirts and the heat is not harsh on her face.

 

By the afternoon, Stiles can successfully fetch his own tea.

_______________

 

Derek and the kids don’t come back until just before sunset. Lily is asleep, and Stiles easily changes her into her night gown, brushing her hair out in gentle strokes of the silver back brush he brought with him, before tucking her into bed with her doll.

 

Rowan proves to be more of a challenge, he sleeps like a log and Derek ends up taking over when he proves too heavy. Jace talks Derek’s ear off with questions about the visit and Stiles leaves the two of them to their conversation.

 

Stiles changes into a white mulsin nightshirt, smoothing cream unto the slight curve of his belly. He won’t be able to hide it much longer. He wonders how the men will react. What will Derek say?

 

Derek comes in a few minutes later, unbuttoning his red shirt and kicking off his long pants. Stiles looks at him through down casts eyes. The man has absolutely no reservations about his form. He walks over to the small table naked, washing his face with a bar of soap and rinsing his mouth afterward.

 

With the firelight casting him in shadows, he resembles one of those pagan gods out of those shameful dime store novels Lydia devours.

 

The bed dips as Derek climbs in next to him, stretching out on his back. His hip touches Stiles thigh. He doesn’t move away. The heat feels like a burn.

 

“Did the tea help?”

 

“It did, thank you.” Stiles dims the lantern. “Did your husband have morning sickness like mine?”

 

“Hunter was cursed with it, always got ill, up until his fifth month.”

 

“I hope it’s not the same with me.” Stiles picks at the bed covers. They’ve been changed to a multicolored quilt, hand stitched and thick. “I apologize for sullying the sheets.”

 

“Nothing to apologize for.”

 

Soon after, Derek is snoring softly, fast asleep. Stiles lays next to him and thinks about his child. He hasn’t once wondered what he or she would look like, hasn’t thought of names.

 

From the moment he realized he was pregnant, it’s as if he’s been holding his breath.  Stiles had been so naïve. When Jordan started paying attention to him he’d been flattered by the attention of a handsome man. His head had been filled with romance.  But Jordan proved what sort of a man he was, when he turned tail and fled like a coward. Stiles had felt so alone.

 

John was so disappointed. It showed in every line of his face. Stiles knew their situation was dire, the peeling wallpaper in the sitting room attested to that. His father gave every cent he had to have Stiles educated properly in the hopes of his son securing a profitable union.

 

Derek makes a noise in his sleep, turning over unto his side. Stiles doesn’t move away. This is nothing new.  During the night, inevitably, Derek will always pull him close, arms enfolding him to his chest as he murmurs nonsensical endearments. Stiles allows it because he knows it’s not him Derek is reaching out to.

 

This much, Stiles can give him.

 

Despite everything, despite the fact Stiles didn’t want to be here, he’s no longer alone. For that, he’s grateful.

 

-

On Sunday, Stiles is pleasantly surprised when Cora informs him they’re heading into town for service. He hasn’t done any socializing beyond the big lunches on the ranch, and that only with the ranch hands who spent most of their time speaking of technical things Stiles didn’t grasp.

 

They sit in the middle of the church, an empty pew waiting as if reserved just for them. Lily falls asleep midway through the sermon, crawling unto Stiles lap in an uncharacteristic show of affection. Stiles thinks of it as affection anyway, and ignores the fact that it’s likely because Cora’s lap is taken up by a large basket.

 

After the sermon, the congregation filters out unto the back grounds. The lot has been cleared behind the small church. Cooking fires are lit and racks laid and soon the scent of grilling meat permeates the air. Predictably, the men set up camp near the food and the women, and bearers sit near the picnic tables.

 

After so much talk of the man, Stiles finally meets Isaac. He’s tall, lean except for his protruding stomach and Jackson hovers around him like an over protective hound. Seeing the normally stoic foreman reduced to mush is amusing, but Stiles can see why he’s so taken. Isaac is charming and intelligent, he understands Stiles’ literary references and has even seen many of the same stage plays. It’s a shame that they don’t stay long, Jackson clucking about Isaac needing his rest.

 

As Derek is engrossed in conversation with the reverend, Stiles is left standing alone near the church steps. He feels out of place, regretting his decision to wear his hose when he gets stares. His clothes are a far cry form the muted, somber dress of the others in attendance. However, in the East it was customary to wear bright colors to service. Unfortunately, Stiles’ emerald coat and navy hose are not appreciated if the sly looks are anything to go by.

 

“Did you bring this pie?” A middle-aged woman with a wide mouth and large eyes suddenly asks him loudly. Meredith, Stiles thinks her name is. “It’s _interesting_.”

 

Stiles gets the impression she’s well aware he came empty handed. “Cora baked that peach cobbler.”

 

She harrumphs, setting the unfinished dessert down. “Peaches are out of season.”

 

Stiles frown after her and watches her join a small group of women.

 

Before the woman can come back and find some new way to insult him, Stiles leaves his post and goes after the children.

 

Jace is seated on an overturned crate, a small leather ball clenched tightly in hand.  He’s watching a group of boys play red rover noisily. The kids are loud, carrying on and screaming after one another in glee.

 

“Why don’t you join them?”

 

Jace scowls, pulling at his starched collar. “I don’t wanna.”

 

“It doesn’t look that way.”

 

“They don’t want to play with me.” Jace says again, dark brow furrowing. “They didn’t like my Papa, cause he was brown.”

 

Stiles’ heart aches for the boy.  He looks over to the group of boys, crouched over a ball and laughing. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

 

“It is.” The little boy replies fiercely. His glare is defiant. “They say I’m a half-breed.” The last word is spit out, hatred permeating it. “But I don’t care. I don‘t want to be friends with a bunch of stupid asses.”

 

“Jace.” Derek says sternly, striding over. Of course, he only hears the cuss word and nothing that transpired before. “You want your mouth washed out with soap? Again?”

 

The frown deepens, and this time Stiles can see the pain before the mask goes up. A child that young shouldn’t have to feel like this.

 

“Derek, he didn’t mean anything by it--”

 

“Shut up!” Jace shouts at him. “You don’t know anything. I don‘t need you to say anything!”

 

Derek’s brows raise, and his jaw tightens. “Jace!”

 

It doesn’t matter, the boy is already running back to the general stables, pushing though the gathered onlookers.

 

“He’s getting worse.” Derek scrubs a hand down his face, colors creeping up his neck. “I’m going to straighten him out. He can’t expect to keep getting away this. I won’t let him.”

 

“Derek, it’s not his fault.”

 

“I know my kid, Stiles and he ain’t---”

 

“He’s lonely.” Stiles interrupts quietly. “The other boys won’t let him play with them; they call him a half breed.”

 

Derek freezes at the slur, and deflates. “What?”

 

“Haven’t you ever noticed?” Stiles gestures to the children. “They don’t let him come within two feet.”

 

Derek follows his gaze, takes in the laughing boys as they rough house. Nearby some other children are playing with corn husks and horse shoe.  Not more than a stone’s throw away, Lily is staring at them with wide eyes, but she doesn’t try and join in, clinging to Cora’s skirts instead. None of the children pay her any attention anyway. Rowan is standing to the right of Cora expression equally yearning.

 

Derek looks stunned, face drained of color.

 

“They’ve been staring at us since we walked through the doors.” Stile adds quietly. “And when they’re not staring, they’re whispering.”

 

Back stiff, Derek looks at him with a closed expression. “I’m sorry if that bothers you.”

 

It must have been hard for him. Stiles hasn’t been here long but he knows what it’s like to be whispered about. In this town, different isn’t welcome. Stiles looks towards the wagon, he can see the tan of Jace’s shoes swinging from underneath.  The boy is so small and alone. A wave of protectiveness rises in him.

 

“Let those busy-bodies stare.” Stiles states resolutely, twining his arm through Derek’s. “There’s nothing wrong with this family.”


	4. Chapter 4

Hunter had a tradition, something he did with each of their children. It was accidental at first, seeing as Jace slept in their bed up until Rowan was born and usurped his claim. On the morning of their birthdays, Derek and Hunter would discuss their dreams and wishes for their child. Then, Hunter would wake them with butterfly kisses, inevitably coaxing the first smile of the day.

 

He’s been buried for nearly two years now, but Derek can hear his deep voice this morning clear as if he was lying next to them.

 

_“My little dove…I want you to be brave. I wish for you to know your strength and never doubt it. I want you to know peace, to possess the inner joy that cannot be extinguished.”_

When Hunter spoke those aspirations, he hadn’t known he wouldn’t be alive to see them to fruition. Derek is left with that task now, without him. He has three children who depend on him to be their strength, to be unwavering and their protector.

 

It’s a heavy burden he willingly bears.

 

Derek thinks of the pain etched on his oldest face when confronted with rejection…Hunter would know the right words to say to Jace; he always did.

 

In the quiet room, Derek repeats the words Hunter said on her first birthday. Lily begins to fuss at the sound of his voice, and he smiles, brushing hair away from her forehead.

 

“Happy Birthday, _Michante_.” Derek presses a kiss to her sleep warm cheek.  Then another. And another. She wakes laughing, hands at his beard. “Hello, little dove.”

 

Lily beams, giggling when his stubble scratches her smooth cheeks. “Hello, Sun!”

 

She looks so much like Hunter it makes his heart ache, a bittersweet grace to have a piece of what he misses.

 

“My big girl.”

 

She sits up and rubs her eyes. “I’m still a baby, Daddy, promise.”

 

“You’ll always be my baby.” Derek scoops her up, tucking the white length of her night gown under her feet. “What do you want for breakfast?”

 

“Anything I want?”

 

“Those are the rules.”

 

“Even flapjacks?”

 

Derek presses a kiss to the top of her inky black hair. “ _Especially_ flapjacks.”

 

“Is it my birthday, Daddy?”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

“Am I four, Daddy?”

 

“Yes, you are.”

  
As they come into the kitchen, they’re greeted by a warm, buttery smell.  Derek’s surprised to find Stiles’ at the stove, pulling out a tin tray gingerly.  There’s coffee set out on the table, a vase of dried sage and sweetgrass set in the center. The sounds and smells are familiar to the way it was; that ache returns.

 

In the mornings, Hunter would be here waiting with coffee well before Derek left. They would talk, sat together, while the sun rose, and the world consisted of only the two of them.

 

“Good morning, Derek.” Stiles wipes his hands on a dishrag. “Lily.”

 

“Where’s Cora?”

 

Stiles’ answering smile is shy, he’s dressed in sturdy brown trousers and a light blue shirt. “I had her sleep in, I wanted to do something special for Lily.”

 

“Are those cookies?” Lily asks curiously, squirming until Derek puts her down. She drags a stool over to the counter, but still must stand on her tip toes to see.  “For me?”

 

“Not exactly, they’re _scones_ for your birthday.” Stiles drizzles honey over the steaming pastries. “My mother made them made for me when I was your age; they were my favorite. I hope I got the recipe right.”

 

Derek watches Stiles with his daughter, how careful he is, catching her hands before she can burn herself on the hot tray. Predictably, Lily begs for a taste of honey and Stiles give her an entire teaspoon full, laughing and saying it’s her birthday when Derek shakes his head in disapproval.

 

Footsteps breaks the idyllic scene. The boys are up. Rowan comes flying in and Derek catches him by the collar, corralling him with a hug and ruffling his sleep mussed hair.

 

“Where’s my good morning?”

“Mornin’, Dad.” Rowan pulls away and runs over to the table. He peers at the tray, frowning. “Fluffy cookies?”

 

“They’re cranberry scones.” Stiles answers.

 

Rowan considers this, then crosses his arms in mutiny. “I don’t like scones; I like cookies.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, pouring himself coffee. “It’s not your birthday, Roe.”

 

Lily follows suit. “I don’t like scones; I like _cookies_.”

 

“Lily.” Derek chides gently. Stiles looks uncertain now. “You’ve never had them, maybe you like it and just don’t know?”

 

She looks dubious, but gives an exaggerated sigh. “ _Maybe_ just one.”

 

“Now that we’ve twisted your arm.” Stiles says dryly. He breaks off a piece, blowing on it before he lifts it to Lily’s mouth.

 

Her eyes go round, and she licks her lips. “More!”

 

It’s love at first bite.

 

-

 

Stiles looks in on the cake anxiously as he whips a glaze. He’s lucky Cora found some sugar left over the store house. White sugar is scare here. He wants things to go nicely today, it’s his first foray into family life.

 

“Smells nice.”

 

Derek is leaning against the door of the mudroom, dirt splashed up his pants and the leather of his chaps. His cheeks are ruddy from the harsh wind, hair messy and dark over his ears. He’s overwhelmingly handsome, virile in a way Jordan never could be. Jordan is urbane and pretentious, while Derek is primal and brute strength. Stiles thinks of the evening prior, when he watched Derek work from the window— seen him break two mustangs to ride, muscles flexing and rippling as he brought the animal to heel.

 

The more he sees of Derek, the more time he spends with him…

 

“I’ve got a cake going.” Stiles resist the urge to wipe at his face for what he’s sure is stray frosting, he hadn’t been able to resist a dozen or so tries of the sugary vanilla. “I think Lily will be happily surprised.”

 

“So that’s what Cora was after at Isaac’s.”

 

“Uhm. If you could, I’d like to do the shopping. It’s not right that Cora shoulders the duties of the house hold, seeing as I’m your husband.”

 

“Are you now?” Derek grins slowly, teeth white against his tan skin. “My husband?”

 

The word _husband_ rolls off his tongue, rough and smooth like honey over whiskey. It makes him think of improper things, the ardent scenes he and Lydia laughed over in the dime novels.

 

Just like the cad most likely wants, Stiles blushes to his roots. “You’re being ridiculous.”

 

Derek steps closer, tilts Stiles’ chin up with one finger. “Haven’t had frosting in a long time, can I have a taste?”

 

Heart thundering in his ears, Stiles holds out the bowl. Derek bypasses it and ducks his head.

 

Stiles jumps at the hot touch of Derek’s tongue against his bottom lip.

 

Derek pulls back a hairsbreadth, breath fanning over Stiles’ mouth. “Sweet.”

 

And what does one say to that? Stiles has no words, shivering when Derek presses forward deliberately once more. This time his lips brush against Stiles’ once, twice and then stay the third time in a gentle kiss. Derek’s scent envelopes him, spicy and clean, a hint of sweat; the smell of a _man_.

 

It’s shameless how quickly his blood warms, how arousal spreads through him and he opens his mouth in silent invitation. Derek takes it, big hands sliding down Stiles’ back, dwarfing his frame in heat.

 

Stiles makes a small noise in the back of his throat—of surprise, for more, he’s not sure— but Derek stops, green eyes looking down at him.

 

Stiles is sure he looks as dumbstruck as he feels.

 

Derek smiles, thumb sweeping over Stiles’ cheek before he sucks it into his mouth. “Sorry ‘bout that, was always a kid with a sweet tooth.”

 

Cheeks hot, Stiles refuses to give in to the smug man. “You go out of your way to embarrass me.”

 

“Embarrass you? There’s nothing that happens between a husband and his man that’s shameful.” Derek quirks a brow. “Or was that how it was with you and your fella?”

 

“He’s wasn’t my fella…” The heat vanishes and turns to cold ash. “He’s not my anything.”

 

“But you cared about him enough, wanted him at some point or—”

 

“Sex is sex.” Stiles blurts, meaning to shock Derek, throw him off whatever course of conversation he’s trying. “We had fun.”

 

“Until your fun came home to roost.”

 

“Very clever.” Stiles turns back to the stove top. He hates when Derek does this, pokes and pokes about Jordan. That part of his life is over now. “Please make sure the men know to take their dinner with Jackson tonight.”

 

“Hey now.” Derek tugs him around the waist. “I’m just teasin.’”

 

Stiles remains silent.

 

“I can’t tease my husband?” Derek turns him arounds when Stiles stubbornly doesn’t move. Soothing, he runs his hands down Stiles’ shoulders, the way he does with a skittish horse. “It’s alright to talk about him, good even. I ain’t dumb enough to expect you never to think of him…I want you to be open with me.”

 

What Derek doesn’t understand is that it hurts to talk about him. It’s mortifying to know you loved someone who was playing you for a fool the entire time. And how could he speak of Jordan to a man he was beginning to have feelings for?

 

It would only further sully Derek’s no doubt low opinion.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Yes.” His voice shakes, just a little. “Now, get back to work and let me get this cake frosted.”

 

“Are you sure you’re not taking on too much?”

 

“I need to start taking on more around here.”

 

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll take you by the General Store after church, you can pick out whatever you need then.”

 

That reminds Stiles of the ugliness, how quiet Jace has been since. He hasn’t pulled any of his vicious pranks, and was withdrawn, even with his father.

 

“I’ve been thinking about that…”

 

“And?”

 

Stiles sets the bowl down, listening to see if he can hear any of the children before he continues. “We shouldn’t. I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring the children out around that hostility.”

 

“Hostility?”

 

“In town.”

 

The relaxed demeanor vanishes. “Because of what a few people think?”

 

“Because they’re children—”

 

“They’re half Cree is what they are and _always will be_. I’m not going to teach my kids to hide, to skulk in the shadows like they have something to be ashamed of.”

 

Stiles is alarmed at how quickly the conversation escalated. This is the closest to angry he’s ever seen Derek, the harsh set of his jaw and the fierceness in his eyes.

 

“They’re perfect, as is, and that includes the Indian.”

 

“I didn’t mean…” Stiles drops his gaze. “I only want to protect them.”

 

“The world will be harsh to them, no two ways about it, my job…” Derek stops. “ _Our_ job, is to make them hard to ignorance and soft to humanity.”

 

-

 

“Happy Birthday to you!” Jace hoists his sister up so she can blow out her candle. Lily blows, too hard if the spittle is anything to go by, and Derek is grateful that Stiles cut the slices beforehand.

 

“And many more.” Cora kisses Lily’s head. “Look at that pretty cake.”

 

“It’s mine.” Lily opines sagely through a mouth of frosting. “Stilo made it.”

 

“You can make lots of stuff, huh?” Rowan asks suspiciously, as if he just realized he can capitalize off it. “Cause we like sweet stuff.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Candied apples! Caramels—”

 

“Donuts!” Lily shrieks. “Make me donuts!”

 

Derek laughs. “Alright, alright, that’s enough now.”

 

“Michante,” Jace lifts her to the ground. “Roe and me got you a present.”

 

“You did?” Lily lights up.  It’s endearing how much she loves her brothers. “I love it.”

 

Everyone laughs and Jace shakes his head. “You haven’t even seen it yet, you ninny.”

 

It’s a corn husk doll, brightly adorned in miniature doll clothing and jewelry, beadwork or painting, and an animal fur stole. He can see the curiosity in Stiles eyes as he clears away the newspaper wrapping and twine.

 

“From the rabbit I trapped this summer.” Rowan adds proudly stroking the grey fur of the doll’s miniature coat, and Lily smiles hard enough her dimples peek out. “And Jace wove this, like Papa used to.”

 

Jace’s expression is unreadable when Derek looks at him in question.

 

“Uncle Night Sun helped me with a lot of it, I didn’t really remember how Nikâwiy did it…”

 

“It’s beautiful.” Derek loops an arm around his son’s neck as Lily hugs the doll fiercely. “I’m proud of you, Kikâwiy would be too.”

 

“Who would’ve thought you two hooligans could be so sweet.” Cora breaks the poignant moment and thrusts another package on the table. “You have a few more to open.”

 

Lily opens each present with fervor, but the doll is clearly her favorite, she doesn’t put it down. Derek’s surprised when Stiles sets a small brown box unwrapped on the table.

 

“It’s nothing grand, I haven’t really had time…” Stiles looks far too nervous, Lily is four and unlike Rowan, not at all discerning. “I can always change it.”

 

“Don’t be silly.” Cora lifts the lid.

 

“Oh!” Lily coos, peering inside. “So pretty.”

 

They’re hair bows, four of them nestled in lace: black velvet, red with lace trim, yellow trimmed in lace and white. Derek has seen these styles when he’s made the cattle drive and several times when he accompanied his father East to sell the colts.

 

“But I need more.” Lily turns around to Stiles, shaking her braids in demonstration. “Two of each.”

 

“Or we can try a new way,” Stiles suggests softly. “Just for sometimes.”

 

Jace is tense next to him, and Derek squeezes his arm gently, in comfort or in warning, he’s not sure. They’re a house of men, not really knowing how to have a softer touch the way carriers do, and Cora, although a woman, is sometimes rougher than they are.

 

Hunter did Lily’s hair this way, so they did her hair this way.

 

Lily stays perfectly still as Stiles loosens and lets out her braids, and then sweeps her tresses back to secure it with the yellow bow. She clamors until Stiles finds a mirror and then smiles at her own reflection.

 

“Pretty, Daddy?”

 

Jace responds before Derek can. “Beautiful.”

 

-

 

With the excitement gone, and presents displayed proudly on the little bureau opposite her bed, Derek tucks Lily under her covers, pulling the woven nursing blanket over last. He traces the worn bright colors, red and yellow, with his fingers. He recalls Hunter sitting by the fire, bare-chested as he was accustomed to do in the house, his stomach round with their daughter.

 

Then, Hunter would catch Derek staring, smile _his_ smile and say—

 

“Kisâkihitin.”

 

“What’s that mean, Daddy?”

 

“You know that one, it’s how we say I love you. The way Papa—Kikâwiy— would say it.”

 

Derek thinks of his Stiles, sleeping where Hunter would be. He thinks Hunter would’ve been delighted with today; how happy Stiles made their little dove.

 

He pushes back the guilt when he remembers the kisses they shared.

 

Lily yawns, snuggling into the blanket. “Say it again.”

 

“Kisâkihitin.” Derek makes sure to say it slowly, enunciating.

 

Her eyes close. “Love you too, Daddy.”

 

-

 

The Willow’s Bend General is unlike the popular stores in the East. It’s larger and grittier. The interior dim, with strategically placed lanterns lighting displays. The dirt packed floors are crammed with boxes, barrels, crates, and tables holding various goods.

 

Derek leaves Stiles with Lily, instructing the burly man behind the register, Finstock, to put everything on his credit while he collects the remainder of Stiles’ trunks.

 

Lily’s hand in his, Stiles takes his list and with the clerk’s help purchases several sacks of potatoes, grain, flour, molasses, jams, beans, yeast, coffee, spices, baking powder, oatmeal, vegetables, and tobacco. He’s noticed many of the ranch hands end the day with a cigar. He’s got a lot to prove, and if he wants to make a life here, he must be useful.

 

Stiles spends much more time looking at bolts of fabric. He’s a decent seamstress if he’s bored enough and with the way Cora talks, the winters are harsh and leave you housebound. So, he buys brown and tan patterns for the boys, Jace will outgrow his long pants soon and Rowan’s trousers are already getting short. He also selects a pretty yellow and blue pattern for Lily, as well as a heavier burgundy brocade for a Christmas dress. He pre-orders suits for the boys, gets suspenders, dungarees and hats suitable for colder weather.

 

There are infant gowns, tiny little things that are wispy and lace. Stiles swallows hard, before walking way.

 

Lily started off patient, quietly playing with her doll but it’s been near an hour and she’s getting antsy, shyness wearing off as she grows agitated. So, Stiles deflects with the bright rows of candy displays.

 

“Peppermint sticks!” Stiles mouth waters. This must be part of the cravings. He takes five sticks, one for each of the children, and embarrassingly, two for himself. He hopes Derek truly meant anything and everything, the guilt of how much he’s spent today hitting him.

 

Finstock informs him of mail received, and Stiles is thrilled to find not one, but _three_ letters addressed to him; two from Scott and one from Lydia. He presses the envelopes to his heart like a treasure before slipping them into the inside pocket of his coat.

 

“I didn’t see those in the last stock?” A blonde woman, tall and slender in a gathered blue gown is pointing at the velvet bow in Lily’s hair. “Finstock? I’d like one for my Emery.”

 

“Uh.” Finstock squints, scratching his chin. “We sold out, I can pre-order for you—”

 

“I made it.” Stiles interjects, frowning at the dishonest clerk. “If you sew, it’s a double band and overlay pattern.”

 

“A what and _what_?” The blonde laughs, “Oh no, sweetheart, I don’t sew. Why can’t you just make one for me?”

 

“And you are?”

 

“Sorry!” She pulls off a white glove and extends her hand. “Erica, and if that’s little Lily hiding behind you, then you’re the boy our Derek just up and married—”

 

“Stiles.” He articulates stiffly, nodding at the proffered hand. “My name is Stiles.”

 

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a bunch! We were all surprised, he and Hunter…” Erica pauses and Stiles steels himself, but she surprises him. “They were so _romantic,_ but I suppose the children have been without a softer touch and— ”

 

“I should really be going, it was nice meeting you.”

 

“I _have_ offended you!” Erica grabs his hand in treaty. “I talk too much, everyone says I do, but I really am glad to have met you.”

 

Stiles figures he could use all the allies he can get, so he gives in. “I could make you a bow, if you’d like, just give me the material.”

 

Erica claps her hands together in delight. “Wonderful!”

 

By the time Derek arrives to collect them, Stiles has accepted a commission for three red velvet bows and a visit for next Wednesday.

 

-

 

 

It’s dark in the bedroom when Derek returns from washing up, he can just make out the shape of Stiles beneath the blankets. Derek strikes a match, lighting a candle.

 

Stiles was quiet all evening, retiring early after a near silent supper. Derek knows he got some letters in the post today. For the first time, he wonders whether Jordan wrote to Stiles, knows where he is. It’s not what they agreed to, in the prior letters, Stiles assured him that he would be committed to the marriage.

 

It unsettles him—Derek refuses to think the spark in the pit of his stomach is anger— that another man can control Stiles’ mood.

 

 

Derek gets undressed silently, washing up while Stiles pretends to sleep.

 

“Everything alright?”

 

Stiles grunts in response.

 

“Should I get you tea?” Derek sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching for the sheets that cover Stiles’ face.  “Is your stomach—”

 

“I’m fine.” Stiles voice is muffled, thick with tears. “I just need to rest.”

 

“You’ve been quiet since we left town. Did someone upset you? Did anyone say anything?”

 

“No one said anything.” The sheet comes down and Stiles’ face is wet with tears, blotchy and red. It surprises him, he hasn’t seen the boy cry. “I got letters today. And I…so damn far from my friends, my family, my home…everyone who cares about me.”

 

There’s nothing Derek can say, no reassurance for that kind of loneliness. “I’m your husband, but I’d like to be your friend. This ranch can be your home... and we do care about you.”

 

When the younger man doesn’t respond, Derek pulls Stiles against his chest, tucking his head beneath his chin. Stiles doesn’t resist, allows himself to press close. Derek holds him until he falls asleep even though he knows Stiles is thinking of another man.

 

This Jordan Parrish fellow, whoever he is, is an absolute ass. To have someone who loves you, the way Stiles obviously does… a good man, wouldn’t walk away from that.

 

-

 

Service is the same somber affair it was the week prior. Lily falls asleep once more, and crawls over Cora to sleep in Stiles’ arms. He focuses on her weight and strokes her loose hair to distract himself from the side glances and his own mortification.

 

Derek has hardly looked at him all morning. Stiles is ashamed by his behavior last night, bawling like a child and disturbing Derek. This is what his father meant when he warned him not to cause any trouble.

 

It’s his own fault, for reading those letters. Scott’s letter had been bittersweet. He wrote of their friends, the easy life Stiles used to live. Scott is enjoying balls and social gatherings, theatre and horse races. However, Lydia’s letter, much like the woman herself, was bold and to the point. She wasted no time on pleasantries. No, Lydia brazenly opened her letter with the statement: “the coward returns like a dog to his vomit.”

 

Jordan has conveniently found his way back to the city once he heard that Stiles was married off and is now courting the son of a well-off solicitor.

 

Bastard.

 

It pains him more than it should. Even now, Jordan crosses his mind. It would be better if it were unpleasant memories—God knows there are plenty, but his silly brain insists on sweet things. He must be entirely senseless, to waste thoughts on a yellow-bellied snake.

 

“Still not feeling well?” Derek asks. “We don’t have to stay for the picnic.”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “I want everyone to try my muffins.”

 

“You’ve got them all beat.” Derek big hand settling around Stiles’ waist as they filter outside. “You look nice today, by the way.”

 

Stiles, now in possession of all his trunks, is dressed in black pants, dress boots and a brown waistcoat. “I finally accepted that hose is not looked upon favorably.”

 

Derek laughs, a rich sound and Stiles notices several of the women, and carriers, look their way in envy. It’s not as if he hasn’t noticed the appreciative looks his husband garners, but Stiles feels oddly territorial. It may be the fact that Derek hasn’t tried to kiss him, or even embrace him since Lily’s birthday.

 

After Stiles sets his muffins down on the picnic table, he looks for the children. Like before, Jace and Rowan stand alone, as the other children rough house.

 

Stiles walks over to them once he’s satisfied that Meredith knows he’s the one who made the muffins they’re all raving about. “Are you boys okay?”

 

Jace scowls at him, kicking at rocks buried in the dirt. “We’re fine.”

 

“Maybe we could get a game of horseshoe—”

 

“I don’t want to play with you.”

 

“But maybe if—”

 

“Blake!!” Rowan yells and then takes off running.

 

Stiles follows the direction he runs off in and spots Erica stepping down from a wagon, a tall man helping down children. A boy, close to Jace’s age with curly, blond hair and blue eyes waves excitedly, catching Rowan’s hug and then looking over at Jace with a huge smile. He’s wearing the traditional cummerbund that denotes a carrier status.

 

It doesn’t take more then a few seconds before the kids are chasing one another, Blake excitedly showing Jace a pocket knife.

 

Derek watches. “Things will be better now that Erica’s and her family have returned.”

 

_

 

Derek rubs Blaise down, smiling as he hears Jace talking in the next stall over to the wobbly colt. Jace laughed until he cried when Derek suggested the name Biscuit for the newborn, and resolutely settled on the name _Thunder_.  They’re housing him in the main stables but soon he’ll have to be separated from his mother.  

 

Every morning Jace is in the stables, mucking out the stalls and laying fresh straw just so he can be near the colt. Stiles has taken over gathering eggs from the henhouse permanently—with no further injuries, thankfully.

 

“Daddy!” Rowan runs in, tossing a bucket to the ground, water sloshes over the sides. “Emery and Anna and Lynn and Blake and—”

 

“Roe, you’re going to make yourself dizzy jumping up and down like that.” Derek pulls off his work gloves. He hadn’t gone far today for this purpose. “I take it Ms. Erica has arrived?”

 

Rowan nods excitedly. “And we can play, Blake brought his ball!”

 

Derek heads in, looking in on Jace as he goes. “You coming down to the main house?”

 

“Don’t think I will.”

 

“Blake will be asking after you.”

 

“ _Dad_.”

 

Derek chuckles, it’s no secret that Blake harbors affection for his son. The nine -year old is constantly saving his candy for Jace, and giving away his own presents. The boys are young, but Derek hadn’t been much older then Jace when he first saw Hunter. It’s sweet.

 

“I’ll go on without you, but I’ll expect you in by dinner.”

 

Jace continues shoveling, head down.

 

-

 

Life settles into a comfortable pattern. Derek gradually grows accustomed to no longer sleeping alone. It’s something akin to comfort and torture. Every morning, he wakes pressed up against Stiles’ warm body, sinful thoughts playing in his mind when Stiles innocently shifts against his hardness. It’s pure torture.

 

When Derek agreed to this marriage he never thought he’d be _more_ sexually frustrated then he was before—making monthly trips to the saloon and hitting Mira up for company.

 

John said Stiles was wild, his predicament attested to that, but Stiles didn’t act experienced and worldly. He’s quiet but clever, but wary. And from the way he blushes on the drop of a dime? Derek would bet that city slicker didn’t satisfy him, show him the pleasures that could be shared.

 

Derek’s caught Stiles looking at him from beneath his lashes in the evenings when he thinks Derek isn’t paying attention, cheeks flushed in more than embarrassment when Derek gets into bed naked.

 

It’s his right to consummate it, Stiles expects it but Derek finds he doesn’t want to—not that way. He’d meant what he said. He wants to be the only man in Stiles’ thoughts. Stiles looks at him oddly when Derek presses goodnight kisses to his cheek, but he doesn’t ask for more.

 

Today, Derek wakes alone. Downstairs, He’s greeted by Cora who explains Stiles is outside helping Allison with the wash. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Derek looks at toward the east field, where the laundry gets pinned. Stiles and Allison are standing in soapy wash buckets, pants rolled up to his knees, stomping down on the linens soaking. She must be saying something entertaining because Stiles is laughing, not the prim smiles he gives to Derek but mouth open, honest to god laughter.

 

Sun coming down on him the way it is, melting the brown of his hair to burnished gold. Derek thinks he’s beautiful.

 

And his.

 

“You know, Stiles has been sick the past few days.” Cora cuts him a sly glance. “Something you need to tell me? You’ve scarcely been married for a month.”

 

“We’re expecting.”  Derek doesn’t see the point of beating around the bush. They all live in the same house and with Stiles’ nausea the way it is, it won’t be hidden for long.

 

Cora’s fork clatters to the table top and she shrieks, running to grab Derek up in a tight hug. “You sure didn’t waste any time!”

 

Derek accepts the enthusiastic congratulations with a forced smile. The last thing he wants is to bring any suspicion or talk down on them. He doesn’t know Stiles well, but he can tell he’s in a fragile place, despite the bravado.

 

“Have you told the kids yet?”

 

“Waiting for the right time.” Derek gives her a measured look. “Don’t you go bringing it up.”

“Promise!” Cora squeals, and then hugs him again. “I’m so happy for you, Derek!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh guys, it's heating up slow...but it will hopefully be worth the wait:) Jordan will play a larger part then i initially planned, i figure it would be harder for Stiles to let go. I hope he's not too OOC, but he's sad, he'll liven up later.
> 
> ALSO: While I do have a history degree with a concentration in Native American (iroquois, mainly-- i know, i know i should wrote about them but i wanted this set in Montana...) studies but that in no way qualifies for as an authority on Cree culture or even educated-- I mean no offense if i got anything wrong, and its ABSOLUTELY not my intention to create a caricature of a race. I write this with the utmost respect.


End file.
